Page 16 of Hilarina and the Ogre

“Varda.” Even just saying the name, Hilary could hear the anger in it, and it didn’t feel new. “With all due respect, get fucked. I don’t want anything from you.”

Her anger came then. He saw it flare to life in her eyes, practically bubbling beneath her skin. Somehow, impossibly, she contained it. “Hilary—”

“And about that Shamu comment. Orcas aren’t whales, you know. They’re a kind of dolphin. If you’re going to insult him, at least be consistent.”

She blinked, entirely lost. She might have tried again, but Mr. Evergard had already walked in, grumpy as always, and she was forced to give it up.

Chapter Five

Name Your Price

As soon as school was out, they headed for the studio, all but sprinting to the car to keep from having another run-in with Varda, something that might have been pathetic at another time but only struck him as funny now. “Quick,” Hilary said as soon as they’d slammed the doors, “throw the salt.”

He laughed when Trenton fished one of those tiny fast-food packets from his backpack and sprinkled the salt carefully out the barest crack in the window.

The little ballerinas were just beginning to arrive for their lesson, but they still had a couple of minutes, and he used them to show his math exam to his mother, which made her ruffle his hair so hard he felt several follicles part from his scalp forever.

“Good enough to go on the fridge?”

“Fridge? I’m having this copied over in triplicate so we can send it out to be professionally framed.”

It felt good, even if it was embarrassing, to have such a to-do made over a single exam. His mother even called Albert to continue the shower of praise while all the beginners were warming up.

Annette stayed for the class. It would be a few weeks more before she could get the one for seniors off the ground, though she’d already put in a small ad in the local paper for it. It was better with her there anyway, because it meant he could spend all the time one-on-one teaching Trenton, something the boy didn’t really need, but nothing less could be offered after all the efforts to help with the math. It was fun to be in the class again, and to be “Mr. Hilary’d” by all the little ones. It was less funny when Trenton tried it.

“Mr. Hilary—”

“You do realize I only need to push down a little harder to tear your hamstring, right?”

Trenton switched back to plain old Hilary after that, and was surprised to have his lesson extended after the others in the class had already left.

“But you already helped me,” Trenton argued.

“You’re in the class. I’m paid to help you, remember? That doesn’t count.”

“Does your mother pay you?”

“She pays for the Shitheap’s gas. And the insurance.” Granted, the insurance wasn’t much, but it was still more than he could afford with his allowance. “Did you have specific things you wanted to learn, or should we just work on some fundamentals?”

What Trenton wanted was to see Hilary dance—a request that had his guard up ten trillion percent despite being sure there had been no malice intended. It was an old habit that would probably never die. “And how’s that going to help you?”

“It would show me how to do it properly.”

“If you want proper, go see a real performance. Or ask mom. She danced professionally for more than a decade.”

“But she’s gone, and you’re right here.”

“Don’t get smart with me, genius.”

Somehow, Trenton ended up following him home for dinner, something the parents seemed to take for granted. “Can you set the table, darlings?” Annette shouted up the stairs to them when they walked in. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

It was Albert who was wielding the spatula, wearing his Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’ apron. “Which one of you is the genius who got a hundred and three?”

Trenton had gotten a hundred and five—no careless mistakes on his exam—but when Hilary pointed that out, his father only added the boy to the hug without subtracting anyone. “I never realized our mailman was so smart,” he said. “I should have left him a bigger Christmas tip.” But soon Albert had another concern. “Son,” he said to Trenton, “that can’t be all you’re eating. Hilary will shoot right past you at this rate.”

But Trenton declined a second portion, though he assured Albert that everything was delicious, and the nicest dinner anyone had ever made for him.

That earned him a couple dozen backslaps. “You just tell me what it is you want for Christmas. I’ll make sure to pass the word along to Santa.”